A/N: One week later than expected, but all the more happy with the outcome: here goes chapter number 20. Thinking back on it, I can't believe I have almost make a decent-length book out of this idea to turn Gale's and Katniss' roles around... Some of you wonder how far I intend to take it, and I can tell you as much as that I have ideas that would make it span all three books, in a slightly compacted way. Hopefully I will be able to! There is so much that bothered me with the way their relationship developed in the books, that I feel the need to re-imagine for myself. That's what fanfics are for, right?

As usual, I am incredibly happy for every single review and for everyone who reads! Every single one counts :) Drop me a line to say what you think of this temporary relief from misery...

"You've come late today, Mr Hawthorne. I'm afraid all the good trades are gone." Frey, the knick-knack tradesman who used to facilitate Gale's shadier dealings, is looking at him through his funny, angled glasses.

Gale has to strain his ears to hear him, over the general bustling inside the Hob. "What? Oh, right, yeah. I was just checking to see if you had gotten in any more spare parts."

The thin, weasel-like man peers curiously at him. "Maybe I could have, if you would think to tell me the purpose of all this interest in mechanics?"

"All in due time, my friend," smirks Gale, remembering from old habits to put on that winning smile, which sets other people at ease.

"As you wish," relents the trader with a shrug. "Got held up today?"

To the common knowledge of the traders there, Gale makes a point to visit the Hob twice a week, at its quieter hours in the late mornings. Now it's already past the end of the shifts at the mines, and the place is practically crowded.

"You might say that," he answers cryptically, not really keen on sharing the details of his life. "I'll stop by on Saturday again, see if my luck has improved by then."

"All right then, until Saturday."

They share a quick handshake, and then Gale continues his leisurely circuit of the different stalls and tables, meeting and greeting and selectively purchasing various questionable necessities for his family. If he lets himself dwell on it, he absolutely detests the way they all now take special care to offer pleasantries and smiles toward him, whereas before a mere nod would have sufficed. However, he knows them all, knows that they are a great part of the reason he still has three wholesome siblings and his own health: knows they helped him and thought of him during the Games. In other words, he owes these people, and who better to bestow his doubtfully earned winnings on?

Being there gives him a certain sense of home that he has hardly experienced anywhere else since coming back a Victor, even if his role is now something more like a beneficent than a dependant. He would have come earlier, as usual, but the last week has been slightly out of habit in Victor's Village. Following that night seven days ago when he had been over to Haymitch's house with the usual dinner delivery from his mother, only to end up in full chaos with Madge's family, sickness had come over them all. First to fall ill had been Madge, as if the sheer exhaustion of her mother's state of disorder had caused her own wellness to falter.

He had walked her home that evening- after they disposed of their mentor in his own private sort of condition over his doorstep- but before he had even taken one step towards his house next door, the sound of her helpless tears had stopped him. She just couldn't will them to stop, had gasped something about please let that be the last time, I can't handle it anymore, and when she begged him to stay with her, how could he not? With his sincere promise that they are in this together fresh in memory, he couldn't very well let her down. Madge had been hot with fever even before he could help her reach her bed, and after a restless night on the couch in her room, he had woken up as dizzy and shivering as she.

Gale can still remember too vividly the dreams that hunted those two days and two nights until he got well again: his old nightmares of the terrors from the Arena, mixed with an all-new arsenal of dreadful memories. Weather in his sleep or awake, a certain dark-haired girl's face seemed to always be swimming in front of his eyes, near yet out of reach. Alternatingly, she would be speaking to him- frightful words and lovely ones and then laughter, as he believed them- or walking away from him again, into a dark void where he knew he would never be able to reach her ever again. In some, she would appear like a vengeful spirit, demanding to know with frightful intensity how he could live with himself now, after what he has become. In others, he would become her, imagining he felt her pain instead of his own, but not quite able to tell the difference, as she walked endlessly through the woods in search of something she would never find.

Just before the fever broke, he had woken up with an uneasy feeling, from a dream where he had been standing just opposite her, near enough to reach out and touch her pale face, but separated from her by an invisible wall through which she could not hear him nor reach him. In her eyes, he could see the sorrow of ages past and future, of love truly and finally lost and of hope almost gone forever. For the first time in several weeks, he had felt fully how much he truly missed her, how the next hour and day seemed bleak without the prospect of her company. How he would give almost anything to have had her there right then- anything except the thing it could actually have cost him to see her. It is absolutely, genuinely maddening to know that she is less than a half hour's walk away, and yet he can't be with her. If he had any hope of her goodbye not being final before, it was surely crushed by her reaction the last two times he has seen her. Most frustrating of all, he knows it makes her miserable, too.

All through the week, his family have taken turns falling ill with the short but exasperatingly intense flu. Now only his mother remains in bed- the last one to fall in all her stubbornness- and consequently the worst affected. According to rumours whispered by the District physician who had been to see her this morning, the black-market liquor trader at the Hob sometimes doubles as a pharmacist of Capitol goods. And so here he is now, helloing his way through his old second home, even though he is in no mood for pleasantries.

Sighting to himself, he realises the liquor stall is across the whole building from where he has just entered through the Town gate. He should have thought to go around and enter from the Seam way, but lately his attention to detail is not what it once was. Five meters further in, he is determinedly held up by old Grant, the weapon forger. The man seems to also have turned into Gale's fiercest admirer while he was away in the Games, and there is no end to his talk once he gets started. Gale lets his mind wander while nodding and humming affirmatively, letting the man chatter on about the local gossip. He is rather ashamed to admit it even to himself, but he has never considered Grant to be exactly the sharpest knife in the figurative box of underground salespeople he knows. But then again, he more or less owes him his life, as he knows the armorer was the one to craft those arrows he received in the Games, so he guesses he likes him well enough.

Katniss always did anyway, would always miraculously have reserves of patience and time for the man, back when they used to come here together on errands. Maybe she was always smarter than he, knowing full well that they depended on Grant to be able to keep up hunting. And then he curses himself for once again letting his brain associate everything to her as soon as he sets foot here, even though he has sworn to himself not to.

You'll just have to need her instead.

Those last words she spoke to him echo through his brain again, like they usually do as soon as he lets himself dwell on that moment. It still gives him the same dreaded feeling of loss to think about them, but still, he has tried. Honestly, he has. If that was her last wish from him, then he has been determined to not let her down on it. At least after the first shock of her rejection had passed- when he could once again think clearly enough to realize the sacrifice in her action, and reluctantly had been able to see the sense in it. It is definitely not the road he would have chosen for them, but he thinks that maybe she is the stronger one in this, and frankly, any kind of plan is better than none.

That doesn't mean that he doesn't hate it, but he follows through with his part. For the most part, when he doesn't think too much about it, it's not even that hard to pretend. After all, no matter how reluctantly, he knows that everything would be so much easier if it were not at all pretend, but rather the new truth. He knows that it is her intention to make it become just that, given enough time. Sometimes, in lucid odd moments, he almost longs for it- for the feeling of being able to wake up one morning without this churning mass of guilt on behalf of two people that makes him all thorn up no matter how he tries to smooth it over. He longs for a time when this addiction to Katniss Everdeen would be over, when his whole happiness didn't have to depend on her. It would be the easy way out, even if the way there would be so crooked and full of loss that he can't bear to think of it.

And then again there are moments when he wonders what it would be like, if she were not his any more. He tries to picture it, seeing Katniss well off with some other guy, because that would be the ultimate goal, if they were to follow through with this. Of course he wants her to be happy, and he doesn't wish for her to be alone, no matter what she would have to say herself in the matter. It's just that he's not sure he would ever be able to look at her with another man, without being driven instantly insane by jealousy, even if the guy in question happened to be someone decent. Certainly not that Mellark boy- he wouldn't even begin to try to condone that.

Then, just as usual, his brow furrows as he remembers that oh right, maybe that's what it's like for her already. He can't get it out of his head how she refused to look at him the last time they met, in the Mayor's house last week.

"What's the matter?" Grant's voice breaks through his filter of brooding thoughts. "Don't like to hear me talking that way of your mentor, huh?"

Gale blinks, searching quickly for any trace of what the man might have just been talking about but finding nothing. "No worries," he evens it out, laughingly clapping the other man's arm rapidly, "you couldn't say anything I couldn't beat you on there."

Chuckling in his disarmingly friendly manner, Grant lapses back into telling some story of how Haymitch had stumbled in to the Hob earlier this morning, stark drunk already and making no secret of it.

You'll just have to need her instead, comes the stubborn echo through his head again, because it is just what his mentor would have ordinated. These days, Haymitch is Katniss' strongest ally actually, he thinks bitterly as he scans his eyes around the shady interior of the market.

And then there she is. Straight in his line of vision but across the hall, her dark braid flung over one shoulder and countenance relaxed, Katniss sits on her usual stool at the desk of Greasy Sae's soup stall. At first, his heart brightens at the prospect of maybe getting to spend a minute in her company, to see how she is doing. He is almost about to make his excuses to his company, when he realises she is not there on her own and stops in his tracks.

To Katniss' left, Darius the young Peacekeeper is hovering in his standard slouch across the desk, poking around with a spoon in some half-eaten stew most likely. Nothing is new about that picture after all; the three of them used to keep quite regular company in the afternoons, Darius neglecting his duties to try to win even a minute of Katniss' hard-earned attention. That had always been a lost cause, but it amused him to try, and Gale had never found any reason to worry there.

On the other side, however, he is amazed to find his old friend Thom Crandale seated in the third stool, and chatting away to the other two as naturally as if this is a daily occurrence. From over here, he can't make out anything they say, but he can see sharply enough that the quick laughter that flitters across Katniss' face doesn't escape him. She has a jug of soup in her hands too, just like her new friend does, and she looks carefree, one elbow against the counter.

A sudden thought makes his heart pick up pace, causes blood to rush furiously to his face. He looks at the two of them together, noticing the way the boy's eyes linger just a moment too long on her face after she looks away and the way he is leaned slightly closer to her than what is necessary – and she doesn't seem to even notice. Really, he is not blind. This kind of game he understands, and unfortunately, he knows that Thom understands it just as well as he does.

It's not that he is that handsome, that's not the issue, because Gale knows he beats his old friend in that department by miles, but then again Katniss never cared about looks. The thing that bothers him beyond normal suspicion is that they look somehow right together, the exact same way that he knows he himself and Katniss used to, before. Thom is clearly just come from the mines, in full overalls and coal dust speckling his hands and face, while Katniss is in her school clothes, less obviously made for the outdoors than her hunting gear, but still durable and practical more than flattering. Side by side, they look like a team, like two people whose lives could easily be fitted together to make them both stronger. It's the future he once would have pictured for himself; along with the only person he even wanted to picture it with.

Gale knows right there and then, that no matter how good he has become at pretending, it is all nothing more than ashes and dust. The pitch-black flood of despair and sheer possession he feels as he looks at them, tells him immediately that nothing will ever make him ready to give her up to someone else. It's melodramatic, and wretchedly selfish, but he thinks he would sooner die than see her happy with another guy. As decent as he knows Thom to be, it simply doesn't matter – in his heart, he can't stand any other possibility, than that her future is entwined with his own.

Before he knows what he is doing, he has mumbled a quick apology to Grant, and is pushing his way through the crowds with sole determination, while trying his best to scold his features back into a neutral stance. He doesn't even know what he imagines he will be able to do, once he is face to face with her, but then it turns out he doesn't get the chance to find out.

"Hawthorne," exclaims Thom, smiling friendly, as Gale emerges from behind the tall stand where they sell old outdoors clothing. "You just missed Katniss. She had to leave suddenly, said something about remembering her sister's evening lessons."

He says her name casually enough, indicating they're good friends. Gale wonders idly when that happened, but supposes it had something to do with his absence during the Games. "Hmm," Gale mutters, frowning at the empty space where her slim frame just disappeared through the doors. "I bet she did," he continues, directing his glare at his old school mate.

Thom gives his a funny look, like he knows more than he should in the matter, but Gale can't even begin to figure out why he would. It's not like Katniss was ever much of a chatterbox. His nerves tense up further in suspicion.

"Now now, kid," Sae chimes in, coming into view from behind some large crates to be met by Gale's disapproving stance. "Sit down and have a cup of soup, will you."

Without further notice, she proceeds to grab the empty mug that just left Katniss' hands, and fills it up to the brim with steaming hot stock. Gale regards it frowningly for a long moment, but flops down eventually onto the stool, which is still warm from when she'd been sitting on it just minutes past. His hand closes around the cup and taking a sip, he is momentarily distracted by the fact that a certain pair of lips had touched the very same place as his do. It sends a sadly interesting little tingle down his insides, serves to fight the angry tension a little. Then, his worst wrath evaporates, as Thom distractedly begins to talk of the new directions for dynamite handling in the mines, and Darius sees a chance to lean forward and whisper barely audible in Gale's ear:

"Don't worry. He's got about as much of a chance as I do."

He sneaks a peak at the Peacekeeper, who throws him a conspiratorial wink. From across the counter, Greasy Sae smiles a secret little smile, and all of a sudden Gale finds his lips curling up slightly too, because now he knows that he has got people on his side, too.

Somehow, the days pass. On their own accord, without any encouragement from his side, days turn into weeks that turn into months, not leaving any impressions behind to tell the story of their passing. More and more often, Gale finds himself wondering what day of the week it is, and if a whole week has actually passed since last Sunday, or if it's only his mind playing tricks with him.

Days are nowadays divided into strictly scheduled sections, designed to create a false perception of duty and business. Weekdays, while his siblings are attending school, he spends all morning and afternoon studying. Yes, actually studying, something he has never quite paid half a mind before. But then as a Victor of the Games, he's supposed to have this special interest, or hobby, or whatever they like to call it. Point is, he needs to fabricate a public façade of purpose in society, and it could at least in theory be anything he wanted. As straightforward as it sounds, it had left his perplexed.

All Gale had ever thought he would spend his life doing was hunt, and work in the mines when time came. He had been quite consoled with that plan too, had known he would be able to do both well. So while he knows he should be grateful for the free pass that he has received from hard labour, he can't shake the feeling of being a let-down for his community. His own father had worked and died in those mines, which left Gale with a certain sense of… duty? Revenge? Call it what you wish, but the main industry in Twelve is never far from his mind. And nothing says that the skill of a Victor actually has to be something vain and useless. All things combined, Gale had stood up against his mentor's stern disapproval, and declared himself a future home-schooled mining engineer. If he had surrendered control over his life to the Capitol on all other parts, then he would at least be damned before he let them control everything.

So Monday to Saturday, he learns all he can access about how to transform his innate ability for clever construction into a means for improving the security of the District mines with simple means. Then around midday every day, he takes a break for physical activity. Mostly, this involves a few hours in the woods, away from all the madness. Some days, he wakes up early still, with a strong urge to reschedule his daily hunting trip, preferably to right now, according to the habits of his old life. But every time, he forced himself to be reasonable. This is not just about him, or just about her, but about everybody they know and care about. It's about responsibility, and no matter how bursting angry it makes him to just think about it, he follows through.

In this new routine, it is months before he sees Katniss again, and when it happens, it is purely by chance. It is as if their minds are still connected on some abstract level, too obscure to describe. Perhaps it is only because he still thinks about her, wonders where she is and what she is doing, every moment; and that sheer willpower steers the cause of his life. Quite simply, it could just be that both their internal calendars are still fully tuned, their old habits following the same patterns. Whatever the reason, he was sure it was going to happen anyway, sooner or later.

It is early a Tuesday afternoon on one of those unusually clear-skied autumn days in November, when the sun seems to turn everything it touches into gold. Gale steps out his front door and the first breath of cool outside air smells like fallen leaves and burning woo, like impending winter- and also of something else, a faint smell that triggers some deeply buried memory in him. It reminds him of home, and gets him thinking that probably, nobody has been there to check on his family's old Seam house in too long. Not really in the mood for hunting, it seems like a good enough project for the day.

Despite the bright sunshine, the temperature outside is low and he throws on an old working jacket that has somehow escaped being given away. It has high collars, and a ratty enough look that he won't stand out as much as usual in the les fortunate parts of town. His hunting gear, nowadays safely stored in an inconspicuous leather bag, stays behind as he sets out, while he thinks that quite frankly, his motivation for hunting has been dwindling lately, with the urge to feed his family gone. His mother buys whatever they need with his Capitol prize gold, and they never have to want for anything anymore. Somehow, this makes him strangely reluctant to set foot in the Seam anymore, as if they would despise him there now because he's rich. But today he steers his step towards his old home anyway, strangely light at heart with the cold breeze in his face.

Unsurprisingly, his childhood home looks the same as always. One storey, faded old, colourless wood; ill-fitted window panes that allow icy wind to pass right through in the midst of winter. The curtains are drawn tight and the front door securely bolted, just like he had left it almost half a year ago when they moved out, leaving behind everything but the most personal possessions. He unlatches the front gate, pushes it hard – usually the half-rotten wood gets stuck in place if unused after the first frost – but finds that it swings open at once. Too easy even, making him stumble forward two steps. Gale frowns while regaining his balance. Either the gate has magically fixed itself in his absence, or else this place has not been quite as abandoned, as he would have thought.

Cautiously, he proceeds down the short walkway to the front door, checking the padlock that keeps it shut. Locked. Shrugging once, he makes quick work of the lock and removes the heavy metal bar, then pushes through the door. Inside, it takes only two quiet steps to pass the minimal hallway into the crammed living room, which used to serve triple purposes as dining room and bedroom for his mother and Posy. Everything seems untouched, dust thick on certain pieces. Funny enough, it still smells like home to him, like his daily family life, but also, most intensely, there's that unidentifiable scent from outside, the one that had made him think of this place earlier. Just then, his hunter's senses go on alert, as he realises with absolute certainty that there's somebody else here too.

Three more steps take him into the small kitchen area in the back of the house, and then bring him up short. This room is really the only asset of the otherwise quite miserable house, with its large paned windows, bathing it in daylight. Right now, one of the windows has been left half open, the back door ajar. The frail white curtains flutter lightly in the breeze and his eyes follow their movement down to the kitchen counter, where he finds the source of that peculiar scent. A wicker basket of small crabby apples sits there in the sunlight, giving off a decidedly autumn smell. Of course. He recognises it as the fruit from their crumbled old tree in the backyard. Right about this time of year, his mother would always send him out to pick them, to be preserved for winter storage. It's a small miracle that the tree grows at all, in the polluted, dusty environment of the slum.

As he stands there, staring at the apple basket in a reverie, he becomes aware of almost inaudible steps in the soft grass outside. Then a shadow appears through the window curtain of the back door, right before the entrance is pushed open with a light squeak. The intruder steps into the kitchen fully before looking up, only to skip a step backward with a start, as she notices him standing there. A bunch of the same small apples fall out of her shirt, which serve as a pouch, and scatter all over the floor.

His lips curl up into a full grin. "Easy, Catnip," he says without really considering his words. "It's only me."

He's not even surprised to find her here, not really. Who else would it be? It is as if he had known on some level that she was around, since seeing her here, even after all this time, feels only natural.

She doesn't answer at first, only stands there staring at him with a deep wrinkle on her forehead. He thinks she is going to make a run for it- apples be damned- but then her shoulders relax, and all she says is:

"What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing, actually," he counters, still grinning for some reason. "It is my house, after all."

She quirks her lips, still regarding him. "Technically, it's your mother's house," she points out. "And she said it was fine if I come here every now and then. To look after it."

Gale hums, bends down to pick up an apple that has rolled against his shoe. "Fine. But did you have to break in burglar-style? You almost startled me as much as I scared you." Standing again, he takes a cautious bite of the stern fruit, which explodes with sour bitterness in his mouth. He had completely forgotten how inedible those things are, when uncooked.

A low chuckle makes him shake off the bitter taste and crease open his eyes.

"With that face you could scare even a Capitolite, Gale," says Katniss, with the corners of her lips quirked up in mirth.

He can't help but grin back some more, while his eyes perform a careful once-over. Through his mother and Rory, who have both kept in close contact with the Everdeens, he has been given updates, has known that she has been doing all right. However, it is like a stone falling from his chest, to see it for himself. She looks more well-fed than before, with even some curves showing underneath her leggings-and-loose-sweater apparel. Her eyes look tired, but her skin is glowing healthy and her hair its usual full braid. Before he can stare too much, with the risk of making her uncomfortable, he nods towards the basket with raised eyebrows.

"So, stealing our fruit now, are you?"

She frowns at him in a not completely un-playful way. "Just taking take of what you don't need, Mr Moneypants," she quips, while bending down to start picking up the lost apples.

He frowns back at the nickname, but moves to help her.

"And what if I want these, for their authentic taste?" He takes another face-crunching bite of the apple, which causes her to snort, and mutter something about rich men's problems. She's still suppressing a smile though, which he takes as encouragement. She must also be in a good mood today.

"So I take it school was interesting today?" he teases, knowing full well that she id blatantly skipping.

"Field day at the Mines," she answers shortly, scrunching up her freckly, still slightly tanned nose.

Needless to say more, Katniss never attends those, fearing the depths of the underground tunnels more than any potential punishment for cutting classes.

"I'm going down there next week," he says, straightening up with the last of the wayward apples in his hands.

Katniss nods. "I heard you're working on that," she says, leaning on her lower arms next to him on the counter. "Isn't that a bit risky?"

He shrugs, imitating her posture. "I have to do something," he says simply, knowing she will understand.

"Right," she confirms. And then, not looking at him, but down on her hands. "Just be careful."

His heart beats quicker, lighter, at hearing even just that small admission, and he has to grin widely again.

"Me? Careful is basically my middle name."

She gives him that withering, doubtful look that he just knew he would provoke, and right there and then, things are almost like back to normal- except for his constant whims to find reasons to brush her hand with his…

They talk about nothing special for a while; she asks him about his plans for the mines, he wonders about Prim and her precious goat, they discuss the state of wildlife in the forest. Words just flow at a steady pace between them without any effort, here in this private, accidental meeting place where they both feel safe for now. Really, what harm can be done talking? Hearing her voice, being in the same room as her, undisturbed by the cruel world is a sheer relief. It feels like he can finally breathe again, smile without strain. It makes him realise, even more than the pang of longing that is always there does, how much he misses having her in his life. He almost blurts it out several times, but stops the words at the tip of his tongue; worried their consequence may be that she leaves. Any additional minutes he can get, he is determined to hold on to.

He is in the middle of a particularly ironic recount of a TV-program he saw the other day, about "the riches of Panem", when she decides to try her luck on one of the apples, too.

Probably more accustomed still to the unpalatable bitterness, she doesn't quite grimace as much as he must have done, but her face scrunches up hilariously all the same. He laughs loudly, while she chuckles through the process of chewing and swallowing, is about to say something but then-

He doesn't know where his careful self-control went, but his right hand has nevertheless reached out to pluck away a few stray hairs, stuck to the corner of her mouth. Mesmerised, the tops of his fingers continue over smooth skin of her cheek, across to her ear, tucking it behind. When his eyes click back to meet hers, he finds them wide, alert, directed straight at him. Strangely open to him, almost that way he remembers having seen once before, in the Justice Building right after he had kissed her. With that last thought, his brain goes into instant shutdown.

On autopilot, there is no outside world, nothing to stop him from acting on instinct alone. With sureness he doesn't really possess when it comes to this particular girl, the only one that really matters, his hand continues down her hair, over the skin of her neck, stays there. The sun is slanting down at an angle through the half-open window beside them, lighting her face in gold and her hair in brown-red shades. Everything is still in that one moment; the wintery air undisturbed, dust particles floating in the sun beside her face- and then she. Her wide eyes are unmoving, looking right into his, and in them he thinks he can see a reflection of himself, just like he always used to before, when the distinction between him and her wasn't so clearly defined.

They mirror conflict, but inability to escape. And something like longing, softening them to smooth pools of light grey.

Slowly, experimentally, he lowers his face toward hers, not quite sure if he has actually read the signs right, but not quite in control to stop himself. He hears her quick, sharp intake of breath, sees her lips fall open a little.

At the base of her throat, just under his thumb, her pulse is strong against his skin, beating recklessly. What is this magic that has come over them, making reality seem like a far away problem?

In his head, he has imagined this moment more times than he can count; has played it before his inner eye in different settings and at different points in time. Their first real kiss, however, is unlike any of those scenarios, because in his mind, Katniss would usually be her feisty self, putting up quite a protest despite the fact that they both know how she feels about him. Her pride just wouldn't let him get close this easy. Honestly, he had never expected this… surrender.

Somehow finally against his, her lips are full, relaxed, and so soft it drives him half crazy, despite being slightly chapped. He parts them a little further with his own, while turning her body- half angled away from him- fully against him. Her face is sunwarm and she smells like outdoors and like her, and best of all: she kisses him back without hesitation. Against his mouth, her lips curl up in a soft, spontaneous smile, and a small noise escapes her.

It's breathy, and soft yet intense, empties his mind of all conscious thought, except that she tastes like tart, bitter apples. For a long time, there is only their lips moving together, touching and lingering and free of boundaries, her body pressed close and her hands tentatively travelling up his arms, reaching around his neck. He hopes that life will never be anything else, ever again.

Only when she can't get enough air through her nose does she break away slightly, but only just enough to draw in a deep breath through her mouth; close enough that the warm air that returns is recycled by his, once he remembers how to inhale properly. His chest feels like it's about to explode with something like giddy, electric fireworks shooting up from his lower belly through every single nerve in his body. At the same time, his brain seems permanently reduced to a state of slow, muddy gush. When her eyes almost timidly open and peek up at him, they're filled with the same light that he knows he is shining with himself.

Katniss laughs under her breath, nibbles at her lower lip and says: "Well, that was stupid…" in a voice that hold very little, if any, regret. Her eyes flitter away, but fixes on his shoulders, where her hands are still sliding lightly over his jacket on their way down.

He has to laugh too, likes the feeling of her chest rumbling softly along with his. "I miss being stupid with you," he admits, his voice warm with emotion, close to her ear. The effect is ruined only by the way that it breaks slightly towards the end, but in fact she doesn't seem to mind, judging by the minute shiver that runs down her spine.

Against his ear, she clears her throat silently, but the answer comes out whispery anyway: "Me too."

Smiling, he kisses her cheek, then the corner of her eye, her eyebrow, and his hands continue to hold her in place, unwilling to let in any sort of distance between them. While air flows back and forth, and his head continues spinning manically, his forehead comes to lean against hers. Her left hand drifts away, only to entwine its fingers with his over her cheek. Her lips flutter against the softened skin of his palm, and he thinks his heart skips a beat.

Slowly, the last of the sunrays pass away from her forehead. He moves to capture her lips again, but before it can even be called an actual kiss, the sound of children yelling outside reaches his ear, intruding with a sharp reminder that the world outside has not actually stopped existing. Their eyes meet, grudgingly agreeing that their magic spell has run out. School has already finished for the day, meaning it is high time to return to real life and play by the rules again.

"When will I see you again?" It slips out of him, as he reluctantly lets her out of his arms.

She fiddles with the apple basket, but before her face turns away it betrays a small frown on her forehead. "Gale…" she starts, but seems unable to come up with a whole sentence. An audible sigh escapes her. "Not next week anyway," she says in a manner half accusing and half defensive.

He scrunches up his nose guiltily, recalling that she's right. In fact, that is something he has been trying his best to put out of his mind, because he just can't bare to dwell on it. The return of the Capitol cameras, in preparation for the obligatory Victory Tour that is set to begin in two weeks, and which will occupy the entire month of December. Like he or anyone else is likely to forget the Games in the interval between them anyway…

"Right," he admits, trying but failing not to sounds as forlorn as he feels about the whole ordeal.

Suddenly, she's close to him again, squeezing his hand and putting her cheek against his one more time.

"When you come back, then," she says in his ear, and her voice hold more expectant promise than he could have ever hoped for to hear from her again. She looks straight into his eyes, and adds solemnly: "Don't let them get to you. You're stronger than they are."

He's not quite sure if she's actually speaking in terms of his potential now, or lending him some of that bone-hard determination that she has managed to hold on to, while his has been failing steadily along with his integrity. Either way, he accepts it readily.

"Until after the… after December, then," he mutters, holding her gaze to try to make out if she actually means it or not this time, but in vain.

Just as she makes a move to leave through the back door again, apple basket balanced against one hip and posture ready to face the stark reality, he realises he can't let her go just yet. There's one more thing left to sort out before another long separation, something that he has put off for all too long already.

Gripping her hand tighter, he bursts out: "Katniss, wait! I need to… You need to know…" he stutters, suddenly tongue-tied at the moment of truth. She turns her upper body back towards him, eyebrows raised expectantly. "Katniss," he starts again, and his voice is almost shaking for all that it tries to express. "I love you."

She regards him soberly, something passing over her expression too quickly for him to register the emotion. Her response is short, and uttered in a voice low but filled with so much more than the words contain.

"I believe you."

In another setting, it would have been a hopelessly dull answer, but as it is, nothing else is necessary between them. It is really all he wants to know.